I know what you're thinking
by waywardcherry
Summary: Everything reminds her of Brittany. New York really, really doesn't.


**AN:** This is a prequel of sorts to a story I had published at one point, but then decided to rewrite. I'll pick it back up, but I just needed to establish a starting point. I hope you like it.

..

It doesn't occur to her that she's probably making a monumental mistake until she's standing outside of Newark Airport, watching the cab driver load her bags into the trunk. There's no snow to speak of, just the mind-numbing December wind and the sleeves of her coat aren't long enough for her to pull and tuck her hands inside. There's also not enough headspace to curse herself for forgetting to pack gloves. All Santana knows is the feeling of lead dropping down her stomach (all sensation on her face has gone to hell already) and she actually blanks out—the driver asks her "Where to?" and she can only think New York. Given that they're still in Jersey, there's a slight chance she won't get yelled at for stating the fucking obvious. It takes her a moment to produce the word "Bushwick" and a retort that they'll talk when they get there when the man huffs.

The first complete sentence that comes to mind is _"What did I do?" _And it goes on repeat, over and over, as the city swooshes by the window.

.

All she has is an address (which she found among the notes in her phone) and she's unceremoniously dropped off with her belongings in front of this warehouse-like building.

_Shit_.

They're not even home. Her Twitter feed was going nuts with 'home' and 'holidays' hashtags. Kurt and Rachel just flew back to Lima like everyone else. That's not an option for her, what with being virtually homeless at the moment.

She tries both their phones, but they go to voicemail. She figures that the polite thing to do here is out of the way and she's free to start looking for a way in—she can't even feel her toes anymore—and those two seem like the type of idiots who would hide a spare key in a planter or a decorative gnome just to be _cute_, so she takes her chances. She doesn't know what she pretends to look for when the door opens and a couple walks out, all she knows is that her bent down position might look pretty suspicious, but she's lucky enough to wedge her foot in the door before it closes (those people didn't seem to mind her that much).

It's a pretty daunting task, one that warms her right up, to haul all her luggage inside and up four flights of stairs. Upper arm strength is something she's always had on her side, but right now they both feel like they might fall off. She knocks on the huge door (just in case; again, there's a mental checklist of _manners_ here) and waits long enough to start revisiting her lock-picking strategies if she can't find that damn spare key. The door suddenly slides open and she's met with a sleepy Rachel, wearing an oversized bunny sweater and leggings, her hair in a kind of disheveled side braid. She was actually not expecting any Rachel at all, if the two billion exclamation points on her last Facebook status update about seeing her dads was anything to go by, but it's better than freezing to death in the hallway. "Oh. Hi," is pretty much all she can say.

If Rachel's suprised to see her, she doesn't show it. Santana gives her a tight smile that draws no reaction whatsoever, so she takes the liberty of stepping in and dragging her stuff along. Rachel stands by the door in silence, slides it shut behind them when Santana's done and retreats to her section of the loft. Which is_ huge_. (How did they even manage to score this?) Santana can't see where exactly Rachel goes, what with the sheer curtains dividing the place, and when faced with Rachel Berry, she was honestly expecting some kind of hard time for showing up unannounced, so she offers some common courtesy. "Um, I'm gonna raid your fridge."

All she hears is a "Fine" in response. She's not particularly hungry, but it's early in the evening, this place looks gloomy and she doesn't really know how to make small talk with Rachel if it's not initiated (and it _always_ is and today it isn't and something's just wrong with that scenario) and fuck it. There's a bottle of shiraz that looks decent enough.

She doesn't bother trying to find a glass, she just twists the cap (the lack of a cork just spells bad news), toes off her boots and lies down on the furry rug in the living room space. She closes her eyes and runs her fingers through the rug, taking swigs from the bottle every now and then. If she focuses on just being here, in this moment, it feels less like she's got no ground to stand on and a gloomy future at best. She packed up her dorm and left without a second thought. She had all the intention of going to Lima, being with her mom, but the thought of going back to Louisville made her sick. A call from Kurt to discuss the possibility of an alternative event to Sugar's holiday party turned into an hour's sob session at the airport lounge. (It's just amazing what two brokenhearted people can do to each other.) After blubbering like an imbecile, she used all the game she had left on the airline clerk and managed to switch her flight to New Jersey.

College is not the problem, she actually enjoys it, but she's hit a wall. At first, being there had everything to do with her and, more specifically, her and Brittany. Then it became impossible and less about her the longer she stayed there and things derailed so fast out of her control that she ended up breaking up with the only person she's ever loved. She didn't want to associate everything down to the_ library tiles_ to Britt's crumpled face, crying in her arms. (Maybe she'll transfer, she just needs to find a _roof_ first.) It doesn't take long for that spike of wine down her empty stomach to do a great job of setting her tearducts off; the only thing she can think of to (temporarily) stop them is to talk to Rachel—honestly, she's been here almost an hour and all she heard was a word. She'd think the girl was dead if it weren't for this faint, eerie humming that barely fills the silence. She's known that voice long enough for her to be certain it's not a ghost.

"What are you doing?" And she's not sure she's said it loud enough for anyone to hear. She's about to say it again (the silence goes a moment too long) when the disembodied voice comes a little raspy.

"Curled up in the fetal position, trying not to throw up or think about my future, and humming songs from musicals to myself. You?"

She wants to laugh. "Staring at your cracked ceiling, also trying not to think about my future and polishing off your wine. I might _definitely_ throw up at some point, this shit's horrible." When there's silence again, she mumbles "Sorry."

"It's okay."

Rachel's voice is so tiny it's disconcerting, and the acoustics in this loft has her glancing around, looking for every faraway noise. It doesn't help that the only light seems to be coming from Rachel's general area and the lamppost outside the window behind her. It's casting some pretty strange shadows on the opposite wall when the curtains flow and, okay, _now_ she's getting paranoid. She clutches the neck of the bottle a little harder.

"Rachel, where _are_ you exactly?"

"In bed."

Santana feels a little mortified for wanting to scurry off the floor and into whatever bed she finds on the way. She presses her lips together and scrounges up the last ounce of dignity left in her in this miserable, miserable week. "Do you like, have any room there?" Silence. "The floor's cold."

"What?" That tone is more than a little baffled and it makes Santana want to press her own face into the fluffy rug until the ground swallows her whole. If she's _lucky_.

"Don't make me say it again."

There's a beat and a heavy sigh and _sweet lord_, be more dramatic, Berry. "_Fine._" Santana would think about how she's starting to hate that word if she wasn't so busy moving as fast as she can to the light—literally. She parts the curtains and finds Rachel lying on her back, fingers absently playing with the end of her braid, socked feet crossed at the ankles. The bed is surrounded by half-full luggage, as if the process of packing or unpacking had been suddenly interrupted at some point. It's warmer in here, but the prospect of slipping under the comforter still sounds so appealing that she just does it. She's proud of herself when even in her slightly inebriated state, she manages to keep the bottle upright until she's settled.

She's about to close her eyes when she notices Rachel hasn't moved. Santana figured she'd have a conniption about having a beverage on her white sheets, but then there's a lot she still doesn't know about this girl. Santana feels self-conscious for the hundreth time since she's arrived and tilts her head on the pillow, facing Rachel's profile. Her eyes are kinda glazed over and it's a tad unsettling.

Being _considerate_ wouldn't hurt. "You okay?"

Rachel breathes out this broken, half-laugh. "I should've been home an hour ago."

If that's not an opening, she doesn't know what is. "Yeah, I didn't think I'd find you here, you said you were going to Lima."

"Might as well have. But I was packing last-minute and I shouldn't have answered the door, I _shouldn't_—" Her breath hitches and it's not like Santana's been faring that well herself, so she immediately passes Rachel the bottle. Her face turns and she scrunches her nose a little. "I—no, it's okay."

"This bottle's been my best friend all night, take it."

Rachel leans a little over the other side of the bed and produces an empty bottle of what looks like tannat (she knows her wine, okay) and Santana suddenly realizes why Rachel's been most likely stunned into inertia. Whatever happened at the door sent her straight to the bottle and… is this _compassion_ that she's feeling? She pushes herself a little upright and takes a swig from her own bottle before placing her hand on Rachel's shoulder. "What happened today?"

Rachel hugs her empty bottle and curls her body towards Santana's side. "I _wanted_ to go to the airport, I wanted to see my _dads_," she whines and fumbles with the edge of the comforter near Santana's hip.

She rolls her eyes down at Rachel. "Yeah, you made that pretty clear all over social media, now continue."

"I didn't drink the whole bottle, okay?"

"Okay?" Talk about a non sequitur, but she goes with it. "That's good."

"It was half-full, Brody left it."

"Who's Brody?"

"He's not _Finn_," Rachel says, with this undercurrent of anger she's never heard before. The snort is involuntary and earns her a glare through the bangs that cover Rachel's eyes. The wine is doing funny things to her as well when she just reaches over tucks the strands behind Rachel's ear. Her eyes soften and glisten a little, and that sets Santana off all over again. She takes long sip this time to see if the wine will burn her tears into submission. "He leaves me wine and brings me flowers and he doesn't _mail_ my engagement ring with a note on my birthday."

Santana almost sputters the wine all over the covers and brings her sleeve to her lips just in time. "What the _fuck_?" There's _so_ much of that sentence that needs to be explained she doesn't know where to start. Rachel's cheeks flush and her lips tremble. Something overwhelming constricts Santana's chest and she slides back down so that she's eye-level with Rachel. She turns a little under the covers and they'd be nose to nose if she hadn't made a point of placing the bottle right between their foreheads—and she's faced with full-on Bambi.

"Why are you here?" Rachel's voice is barely audible. And, okay, Santana can bank on her not following a linear conversation for the rest of the night and she can roll with that. She just wishes _both_ of them were under the covers right now because Rachel seems like she needs a hug and Santana's cold and really wants to give her one. She gulps because just the thought is making her wanna cry again, so she settles for a straight-up answer.

"I'm moving here. To New York, I mean. And Kurt told me I could take his bed while I look for a place."

"We _have_ a place."

"I mean for me."

"So do I. Stay here."

All she sees are those big eyes and _fuck_. She feels like she can't produce a sound anymore. Her throat's gone on strike and the tears fall freely on the pillow. "That's the nicest thing I heard all week!" She just hooks her arm around Rachel's neck and pulls her closer, blubbering all over her hair. The sound of Rachel's giggle doesn't really help, but the hand she wrenches from between their bodies and over Santana's head sure does. "What are you doing?"

Rachel grabs Santana's bottle and maneuvers it to rest on her hip. "You're gonna spill."

"I'm sorry," she sniffles into Rachel's neck.

"And you're gonna choke me," she giggles again.

"Whatever, if you were under here, you'd be all over me like a midget octopus."

Now it's Rachel who brings the bottle to her lips (the empty one still wedged between them) and guzzles like it's water and Santana feels her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. "Oh-_kay_," she says and brings her hand to the bottle until it pops from Rachel's lips. She has this _hilarious_ expression on her face that makes it seem like she just tasted rubbing alcohol. Which wouldn't be far from the truth, this wine is truly disgusting.

"Hey, easy on the chugging, you're gonna pass out."

"So what? I'm in _my_ apartment, in _my own_ bed," she says, emphasizing every word with a slap to the mattress. Santana drinks again. "And if I don't leave here ever, nothing else can come through that door and hurt me."

"Wait, does that include—"

"No, that doesn't include you." Rachel's voice is rising as she goes on and being this close to her is causing Santana to be a little scared. "I'm talking about that _stupid_ ring, in that _stupid_ box, with that _stupid_ note. _Stupid_."

"Okay, you have to give me more than that, what _is_ it with this box and this note?"

Rachel goes silent for a moment and Santana thinks she might just fling the bottles across the room, but she sits up, throws her legs to the other side of the bed and gets up, wobbling a bit. "I need tequila," she mutters. Santana's about to ask about the stupid box again, but apparently Rachel remembers to keep the talk on track this time and throws her a package on her way out. It almost hits her in the eye, but she manages to catch it and it's this very small USPS priority box from Finn Hudson. Inside, she finds a velvet box (she doesn't have to think twice about what's in it) and a crumpled piece of paper that says: _"I don't feel like I'm enough for me, so I don't see how I'm ever gonna be enough for you. You said you don't need me to, but with this, I'm setting you free. You know I love you."_

That's it? The girl doesn't even deserve a face-to-face? It's very easy to slap an 'I love you' to soften the blow, but _god_. (She has to say she feels a little proud of herself for at least having the decency to break up with her girlfriend while they were sitting in the same room.)

Rachel drags herself back into the room holding yet another bottle of wine. Santana holds off on her mental plans to yank off Finn's dick with dull pliers and kicks the covers to the foot of the bed. Maybe she's finally warm, maybe it's her rage heating her up. "Do you have that crap in stock?" Rachel makes a face and plops back on the bed across from Santana.

"Kurt likes wine."

"What happened to the tequila?"

"I hate tequila." At Santana's blank stare, she continues, "I don't know, I feel awful, you feel awful, it just seems like tequila's something you… _do_."

Bless Berry and her need to establish sulking etiquette. "It's fine. Shitty wine is just as good." As Rachel's popping the cap, Santana sees her glance at the box for a quick second and she opens the bottle with a little more force than she probably intended. "You know Finn's a fuckwit, right?"

"Don't say that," she says sofly and picks at the label for a moment. "I gave him the ring when I saw him back in Lima. He said he'd give it back to me when we were both ready, but…"

"Apparently not."

"Apparently not." They both drink off their own bottles in silence and Rachel sighs. "I think this is the worst week of my life." Her face scrunches up in what seems like disgust and it shouldn't be adorable. It _shouldn't_. "Maybe I'm too ambitious."

"What do you mean?"

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Santana."

"No, I mean, yeah, I may have wanted to shove a mic down your throat a time or five, but fuck that, look where it got you. Ambitious is the default setting of this city, I wouldn't be here if didn't think I was badass enough to take it on."

Rachel gives her a watery smile and drinks again. "Ah, what I wouldn't give to see you nail Cassie to the wall."

She perks right up. "I like where this is headed."

"_No_," she says. "She's my dance teacher and she finds ten new ways to insult me every day. And the minute I talked back, she banned me from class until the holiday break and she's in the casting department of all on-campus productions. I'm _never_ getting into the Spring musical now."

_Shit_. This girl can't catch a break, can she? "I'm sorry." And there she is, picking at the label again and looking down at the box. Santana grabs it and sets it down on the floor behind her. When she sits back up, Rachel's looking at her sweetly.

"What happened with Brittany?"

She feels her shoulders harden and her eyes blur at the sound of her name. "I don't—I don't wanna talk about it." She downs the last of the wine and squeezes her eyes shut, just feeling gentle fingers pry the bottle from her hand and then hearing a light clink of glass.

"You know what? _This_… is them."

Santana has to open her eyes to understand just what in the name of hell she's talking about. Rachel set the empty bottles side by side between them and is looking at her with the determination of the century. Or like it's _obvious_.

"So we drank them dry?" she deadpans.

"Kind of," and she's all peppy and _lord_. "They're empty. They've got nothing left to give us. So do we let them stand in our way?"

She has to remind herself that the girl's hurting, she should be supportive or something. "No?"

"That's right! No. So we take them," she wraps her fingers around the necks of both bottles and holds them up like Simba, "and we get them away from us." Aside from the wretched party in the Berry basement junior year, this is the first time she's seen Rachel in possession of so much evidence that she's positively shitfaced. The bottles get flung to the floor (it's wood floors, she'll probably think whatever spills adds character or something) and they're left with one full bottle to do some more damage. They pass it back and forth in comfortable silence, the dim light helping the air around her feel a little fuzzy. Rachel's voice is so soft it doesn't startle her. "You know what the worst part is?"

"What?"

"Today I turn 19 and I've already veered so far off from my plan that—"

Okay, wait. "Today's your _birthday_?" Rachel nods and Finn's inadvertent dick move just grows another head and this is _so fucked up_. And she realizes she's said it out loud when Rachel ducks her head again and wipes the corner of her eye with the heel of her hand.

"I'm happy you're here."

She's gripping the bottle so hard her knuckles kind of hurt and she wants to cry as well. Once again, she pulls Rachel to her and the angle's a little odd for a hug, but they manage. Rachel scoots closer and encircles her arms around Santana's waist and is halfway sitting on her crossed legs. This proximity to any human being is always certain to set her off and, sure enough, she sniffles on Rachel's hair. They shift a little and Rachel pulls her head back, looking into her eyes with this dopey smile. "What?"

The bottle gets wrangled from her hand and she rolls her eyes when she realizes Rachel just needed some room to take another sip. And there's that scrunchy face again and—

Their lips are melded together and she's pretty sure it was her who leaned down to meet Rachel's. They move a bit and part and, well, _shit_. Rachel untangles herself from Santana and starts looking around them. "The wine," and it's about the last thing she expected to hear. "We can't spill, we have to put it down." It doesn't occur to her that she has the damn bottle until Rachel yanks it from her and sets it on a bedside table. Well, excuse her for being absolutely fucking baffled at what just happened—even if it was pretty much her doing. "What—"

"Happy Birthday," and she almost cringes, but it's the first thing she can come up with. This time, after a few beats, it's Rachel who kisses her, with a little more purpose and a hand to Santana's jaw.

There's another hand on her thigh and Rachel works her lips tentatively over hers, slowly, and mutters, "You're soft." Santana doesn't need any reminders that she's being measured up to _Finn_ right now, so she just places her hand behind Rachel's neck and says, "Don't speak." They don't let go while Santana lays Rachel down and, before she can ask if it's okay, she gets pulled on top of the girl. For such a haphazard move, their bodies fit together in all the right places and god—it's embarrassing how wet she already is from some very slow, chaste kisses. She needs a reason, fast, and presses a roaming hand into the expanse of stomach she finds. The sweater rides up even more and she can hear a hum; a strategically placed thigh presses upwards and Rachel's lips part, letting out a strangled breath. Santana takes the opportunity to invite herself into her mouth and Rachel tastes like wine and tears and it sends a jolt right to her core. There's no headspace for anything else but touch and feel. Their hands roam, pull, knead, yank. Their faces taste like tears, too, tracks they kiss up and down until another sensation hits one or both of them and they need a moment to breathe. Then it's thighs and knees pressing and moving together, and it's still some adjustments here and there, she's _so little_. She's used to limbs stronger than hers, more powerful and more demanding. It dawns on her that Rachel probably feels the same way. She takes a moment to just look, the swimming vision before her, this girl with hooded eyes, panting and wetting her lips and sliding a strand of Santana's hair between her fingers, like everything is so fascinating. It probably is. She's barely out of her first relationship and they're so _drunk_ and, under different circumstances, _this_, this being so high on each other would've been laughable. Now, at this moment, it's their world. She doesn't know what happens tomorrow or ten minutes from now. Don't speak. Just do.

Rachel gently pulls her back down and kisses her so deeply her mind goes blank for a second. The hand that's splayed on Rachel's stomach finds the waistband of her pants and there's a split second where they share a look and a nod. Santana's hand finds wetness, Rachel's find purchase on her ass, pulling her firmly down her thigh while they continue to move in tandem. Santana's fingers move and circle and plunge and it's all very messy and breathy, she's pretty sure she's about to see stars when Rachel falls apart, eyes shut, a silent cry dead on her throat. Santana feels it all and holds down tight, until the world explodes in white and she's tasting the sweat on Rachel's neck. Her pulse is racing and they're still holding onto each other. Rachel shifts her head lower and burrows her face between Santana's cheek and the pillow. For a moment, she thinks big talk is coming, but she feels Rachel's body slacken and a hand come up to tread lazily through her hair.

This bubble isn't about to burst any time soon.

Just… don't speak.


End file.
